Dirty Harry 12 - The Dealer of Death Read Online Free PDF

the pungent venom of it, but the shot had missed him by a distance he would rather not measure. The force of the blast, however, had disoriented him, and his ears were ringing painfully. Barely able to see, he fired just at the moment his antagonist loosened a second round. The ringing grew more painful.
    It was enough to try a man’s patience thought Harry as he fired back.
    The round from the Magnum hurtled the man back and over the bridge to the deck below. He came down with a tremendous thud and lay where he’d fallen, unmoving. Still alive, he kept puckering his lips, licking them dry of the blood that kept gathering.
    Gazing out toward the portside, Harry watched the police launches approaching, maybe a dozen of them, each with their contingent of solemn-looking men with enough arms and ammunition to achieve the takeover of some forgotten banana republic. But they held their fire while they circled the ferry. One man was standing at the prow of one of these launches, calling out to the hijackers to consider the odds and surrender. That no one was answering seemed not to daunt him at all, he went right on with his shouting.
    But there was enough for the police to occupy themselves for there were passengers diving into the water. All they cared about was getting the hell off the ship, and damned if they could swim. Harry caught sight of the man with the attaché case. Whatever was inside must have been very important because as he swam, he tried awkwardly to keep it above water with one upraised hand.
    Harry was far from convinced that the danger was over in spite of the fact he’d killed one of the hijackers and critically injured the other. He was still working on the assumption there were at least three men involved in the seizure of the vessel. But when he reconnoitered the decks, he found only some very terrified people who were waiting to be rescued, preferring to stay right where they were rather than throw themselves into the bay. Until Harry indicated he was a police officer, their faces were filled with apprehension. Seeing that Harry was carrying a huge handgun, they naturally decided that he was in on the hijacking as well.
    Harry asked them if they could point out anyone else who might have held them at gunpoint, but they were unable to help him. Everyone had his own story and one story inevitably contradicted the other.
    Harry did discover something of interest though: an elegantly designed automatic manufactured by Ingram, a fine thing to have when one wanted to riddle one’s opponents with several hundred rounds a minute. It was not the sort of weapon people generally abandoned like umbrellas forgotten in a closet. Harry presumed whoever the third member of the boarding party was, had decided to jump into the water along with dozens of other fleeing people in the hope he could avoid being arrested.
    But how, Harry wondered, could he hope to pull something like that off—unless he was disguised? To test his theory, he returned to the man he’d shot out of the bridge. He’d given up licking his lips free of blood—he hadn’t the energy anymore—and so the blood was pouring copiously out of his mouth and beginning to cover the whole of his chest. He was still alive, but barely, and his breathing was shallow and irregular.
    To test his theory, Harry reached down, pinching the lush brown moustache, then yanked it hard. Not only did the moustache come off, but so did the entire face. It had proved to be an uncannily realistic mask, composed of some rubber-like substance. The mask certainly had a healthier appearance than the flesh that lay beneath it. There was more color in it at any rate. Nor was he an attractive man, his features were thin and angular. He was better off with the mask.
    The officer in the prow of the closest launch was still shouting some message through his megaphone. Harry couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he figured he might as well reply and welcome him on board. Just